Sleepless Nights
by AbhorsenSabriel87
Summary: An Eternal Sonata/Trusty Bell story. As a certain leader lies awake at night, he spills his life's story to the only person who managed to get close enough-- the good, the bad... and the horrific. Rated for mature content.
1. Rain and Storm

Alright peoples. I know it's been a while, but I needed to start writing something again, and I just finished up the first time through my game _Eternal Sonata_, also known as _Trusty Bell: Chopin's Dream_. My girlfriend and I were talking about this, and I realized that I needed to write on my favorite character to watch in action; Jazz. For the most part, this story is Jazz's alone - depicting his life before meeting the others, his role in the world before the founding of Andantino, so on and so forth. Due to the graphic nature of certain chapters, this story has been labeled "M" for Mature Audiences, and I expect anyone who does not respect my view to leave my fanfiction alone. If you don't like, don't review. I will not accept flames, as I will hunt you down and either burn you via PM or next chapter response. Either way, there's gonna be a barbeque.

So please, be tasteful. And, _si vous plaît_, tell me if you _do_ enjoy it. I always love criticisms and honest compliments. No flattery, no flames, just honesty. So please, enjoy.

Disclaimer: _Eternal Sonata/Trusty Bell: Chopin's Dream_ and all affiliates belong to Tri-Crescendo, Bandai-Namco and related companies, not me.

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"…" A soft sigh penetrates the deep, heavy breathing in the blackened room. It is night, though the room is less affected by the sun than the glowing crystals hiding just behind the waterfall rushing melodiously past the window. The lamps are diffused, the carved abode barely lit from two portals posing as windows - these allowed not only bits of the fresh water to flow in as streams through the definitely "rustic" home, but crystalline light as well.

"Something on your mind?"

"Hm?" A rustle of fabric and limbs in the darkness, a shift of shadow.

"Is something on your mind?" The question is asked matter-of-factly, despite the tones being hoarse and breathless. Silence follows, heavy and withdrawn.

"No, it's nothing. I was just… remembering something." The second voice rumbled deep and soft, almost a low cry of thunder bound within human form. It too sounded as if it had been through quite the ordeal, yet it held the same content note as the former.

"What? I'd like to know what you're thinking once in a while." Asked almost wryly, it seemed as if the inquisitor were almost laughing at its companion.

"…I was… thinking about us." The deeper of the pair paused, hesitant to continue and making the air thicken slightly in the confusion and slight tension. "How I never thought I'd deserve this, never believed this could happen."

"Being in love?"

"…Yes." A low chuckle padded lightly on the shaded air, not exactly sarcastic or contempt but neither in good humor, and there came a shift of hair against fabric to accompany its dulcet tones. "No matter what I've done, I've never thought myself worthy. Especially not after…" The voice trailed, grief eminent in the words as well as harmony.

"Why not? You're a decent man. More than decent, actually."

"Because… I wasn't always. What you know… it's not everything."

The pause seemed almost irate, adding further pressure to the taut tension in the air. The heavy breathing long since settled into slower, more meticulous patterns, as it always does when resting.

"Then tell me. Everything. From the beginning."

The low chortle resounded once again, amused this time. "It's a long story."

"We have plenty of time. I doubt either of us are getting to sleep now."

"Hmm… Good point." A thoughtful pause, then a soft sigh. "I suppose… you could say it started when I was five. I was the youngest of three, my father dead before I was born. My mother had to be one of the sweetest women I have ever known, even compared to those in our group. I can still remember the way she spoke, even after all these years…" Though the memory is hazy, he can still recall those five and twenty turns of the world before this day. The day he remembered best about his family before it was all taken away forever.

--

The summer sun shone softly, its normally flaring heat tempered by the wisps of clouds fluttering across the sky. With a nose turned up to the sky, slightly flecked with gentle spots of brown and a ruddy undertone, the breeze played pitch bangs across the curved bridge of that raised nose. Dark eyes in wonder stare at the white tufts spreading thin over the azure blanket encompassing the world around him, stretching above the land from the edge of the sea all the way around to the fields on the opposite horizon. Salt touched the air strongly, the sand beneath his legs somehow unmoved by the acts of the mischievous winds blowing not only from the currently peaceful waters but the choral plains reversed of it.

To an onlooker, he was a simple lad - plain, and likely rather uninteresting but for his almost pixie-like features and astonished gaze. Hair black as the space between stars fell in bedraggled clumps about a pale, freckled face tinged with a light summer sunburn. His eyes, though merry in his view of the dashing clouds, showed as much as obsidian-- reflecting outward signs, but nothing inward of it own surface. He was scrawny, though the light chub to his cheeks gained from infancy had yet to fade. Barely a child, and just as amazed with the world as one would a fledgling sailor.

"Jazz, come inside now. Dinner is ready, and your brothers are already washed up." He turned, grinning at the woman who so softly spoke to him. She is dark-skinned, though her hair is fairer than those from a country of endless snow. Her eyes --like his-- are like pitch pools, though far wiser to the world and expectant of everything, all the while accepting and loving of all it has to offer. Almost tripping over himself as he runs to her, he kicks sand into the air with his bare feet, almost flying on the sea's breath into the embrace of her warm arms and soft petticoat.

"Mama, there'll be rain tomorrow, I know it!" He exclaims this with the exuberance of his age, proud of his knowledge due to its newness and lack. "The clouds are coming from the ocean! That means rain, right? Piper said so!"

The woman lets a soft chuckle slip from her bosom as she picks up her youngest son and carries him inside, the daffodil above her ear brushing his brow gently. "Yes, your oldest brother knows much, little one," she agreed, smiling at his joy with the statement. "And unlike Meter, he doesn't like to tease you."

The slight pout looks too cute-- she cannot help but laugh as she sets him down in the modest kitchen. "Don't fret, Jazz; he loves you. He just wants to make sure people do not trick you when you are older. You are far too gentle and believing a boy for a world like this one, but Piper is right-- you should like out being a child for a bit longer." She winked, smiling as his face brightens and he washes his hands thoroughly. In moments he finishes and dries them on a small towel sitting on the counter. So young-- barely five years-- and he could already reach onto the high counter-top. She knows he will be tall, like his brother and the father he never had the chance to know.

With one more bright grin, the boy hugged his mother and hurried into the other room as two elder voices greet him jovially…

He was right, however. There was rain the next day.

Yet… his mother and oldest brother were not there to see it, only to feel it as the youngest son wept at their sides and the other stood unemotionally-- perhaps filled with rage, perhaps grief, but also with an inescapable lack of empathy.

The years only became worse, the days short and the nights horrifically long. And though skies were often clear, it almost always rained to him…

…He never forgot. And the rain nevermore soothed his broken heart.

--

"…Jazz, did you…"

"Yes… Meter kept me quiet as we hid behind a secret wall. But… we saw the whole thing."

"………"

"…" A gentle sigh, more rustling fabric. "If this unsettles you, I… probably shouldn't tell you any more…"

"…No. If I'm going to be with you, I'm going to know everything about you. Including the bad parts. Not all compositions are made with sweet melodies and soft beats-- there are some discordant minors and angry duels as well."

The pause is heavy, but seems to lift slightly with shifting shadows.

"Fine. Just… don't-"

"I won't expect it all to be pretty."

A light laugh ripples through the dark the presumptuous statement.

"Don't expect it all to be tears and blood, either."

"…I won't."

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All right, there it is. More will be up eventually, but let me hear what others have to say first. I do, after all, need to listen to my muses for a while before I write such whisperings.

Also, see if you can guess the recipient. I love giving readers a challenge.


	2. Memories in the Rain

All righty, time for installment number 2, ne? So, you know the drill, readers - Have fun, read, and review. Please! :)

Disclaimer: All characters portrayed in _Eternal Sonata/Trusty Bell: Chopin's Dream_ do not, nor ever will, belong to me. Very sad, I know.

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The blackened room remained silent for a while after that, one of the two voices quieted by sleep. The air smelled lightly of sweat and musk - the "windows" kept the scent from becoming too noticeable from those walking by or in. Though, who was likely to in the middle of the night like this was beyond his fathoming. All he wanted to do right now was lie there as he was - the one he loved most resting against his chest, arm wrapped over them to keep their slender frame warm. Though he couldn't see, he didn't have to - he knew every line and detail of their face, the fall of their hair, the exact shade and tone… Saints, he wished he'd known earlier his feelings; everything would have been easier to explain… At least, that's what he thought…

_Ah well… I still wouldn't be able to talk about their deaths as I saw them… That's my memory alone now._

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, running his large hand absently through his lover's hair as he recalled the terrible incident - though it'd been years, he knew everything about it… the conversations, the faces of their attackers and his family… and the color… such bright, vivid colors…

--

The boy was roused from his slumber by a hand harshly shaking his shoulder and pulling him to his feet. Bleary, he struggled to awaken as he heard harsh whispers in his ear, telling him to stay quiet and hurry. He stumbled, but managed to keep up with the boy pulling his arm. "Meter…" he murmured, his voice laced with heavy sleep as he stifled a yawn. "Wha's goin' on? Wha's 'sa matter?"

"Be quiet, idiot," the older boy snapped, his pale blue eyes glowering at his younger sibling as he stopped at the end of a hallway. "Just follow me and don't say anything." Only a tired nod accompanied this order, and the boy was once more dragged away by his dark-haired brother. In only a few moments, the two were enshrouded inside a small cubby, hidden behind a false wall in the living room. On the couch sat their mother and eldest brother, watching the four men before them in apprehension. The youngest boy watched, slowly waking when he realized that the men in the room where not any he recognized.

"So, you must be that Miss Malagueña that we heard so much about," one of the man stated. He stood by the fireplace, his skin tan and weather-hardened and his features dark and exotic. His clothes were nondescript – half his face covered by a mask, and every bit of his outfit dark and singularly unremarkable. The other men in the room bore the same design save one; the man by the door was more slender and significantly shorter, with flaming red hair. Their mother sat with poise and regality, despite the gentle quivering in her dark hands. Still, she said nothing, only watching the man intently as he stared at her and her eldest boy. After a moment of silence, the man chuckled. "Quiet? How very strange. I had heard that you loved to speak. Perhaps that was before your husband died, hm?"

_Papa?_ Confused, the young boy tried to lean closer, only to be held back by his brother's arm and sharp, icy gaze. Anxious, the boy simply watched as his mother recovered from the flinch she'd made at the mention of her deceased love. "My husband was a fisherman, like my son," she explained softly, her voice gentle yet hard, a rod of iron wrapped in velvet. "We have nothing for you bandits, as we don't have anything for ourselves."

"Oh, I see." The man shook his head, then looked to the man closest to the two, giving a shrug. "Sorry boys - I guess we go home." A light wave of laughter issued from the men as the two on the couch scowled darkly. Suddenly, the eldest brother stood, pointing at the man. With his modest height, he was eye level with the intruder before him, his chin-length black hair seeming tipped in flame from the light of the fire as he declared, "You are not welcome in this house. I do not know your connection with my father or mother, but-"

Before he could finish, the man moved. It was so fast and so sudden that no one saw it coming, until their mother put her hands to her face and shrieked as her son fell to the floor, blood pooling from a fatal stab to his heart. Jazz could only stare, then lurch forward instinctively to help his brother, even as his other held him back firmly. He could only watch as his mother screamed their brother's name, cradling his slowly cooling body to her chest, blood staining her homespun white clothes. The man looked to her dispassionately, then gave a harsh snarl.

"I will not let your bastard husband live on, witch," he stated coldly. "Those from the Hell he came from should remain, and your lesser breed to your pathetic islands."

"You monster!" she screamed at him, tears running down her face. "We have done nothing wrong! And you killed my son! A curse on you, you heartless bastard child! Damn you to your unspeakable Hell!" Before her curses to him could continue, the man lunged his sword forth one more, piercing her throat and watching the life drain from her eyes as the blood flowed from her small mouth and slender neck.

Jazz nearly screamed but for his brother clasping a hand over his mouth and tightly pulling the boy to him, shielding him from anything more. But, even against his brother's chest, he could hear the cold man speak to the others. "Let's go. Our business is done here. We'll collect our dues and leave." Within moments, they were gone, after crashes and bangings were set about on their way out.

Then, the silence. It seemed to stretch on forever as they sat there behind the wall, fully knowledgeable about what had just happened. Finally, Meter let his brother go, staring blankly at the floor.

"We bury them," he stated sternly, answering the unasked question in the younger's mind. "We bury them, then go somewhere else." Jazz didn't dare ask where, only followed his brother as they left the small sanctuary and walked into the main room.

The stench of blood overpowered his senses, seeming like a thick pool in the air as the firelight make it shimmer like blackened oil. The two of them worked together to drag both mother and brother outside into the rain, the drops hiding the tears that the younger had begun to shed. The chill wind helped mask his sobs with shivers, and the work dulled his mind so that he needn't think of what had just occurred until the graves where dug.

And so, they stood in silence as the silver rain fell, piercing through to fill his soul with pain and tears.

--

Staring at the ceiling, he didn't realize how long he'd been staring off until the lover in his arm suddenly rolled further into him, half of a warm, slender body resting on his own now. A cold nose tipped up to rest under his chin, and a sigh escaped parted lips. Giving himself a secret smile, he closed his eyes and willed away the memory.

Tonight was not the night for haunting recollections - only good dreams would beckon him into darkness this time.

A smile quirked further onto his face as he drifted into sleep, peaceful darkness lacking dream or memory, but filled with the sense -the knowledge- of who was laying at his side. That, in itself, was it's own dream come true.

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Well, tell me what you think… though I think I may have Jazz fangirls trying to rip me apart with these crazy ideas. Anywho, please review with what you think, okay?


	3. Desert Rose

Holy Hell in a handbasket! I've waited way too long to write this! But, you know, November is National Novel Writing Month, so I may as well update my fanfics, right?! --laughs-- Anyway, here's the third, long-awaited chapter of _Sleepless Nights_. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: All characters of _Eternal Sonata/Trusty Bell: Chopin's Dream_ do not belong to me. I'm only a bored college student. ;-; And... Rhyme is a random NPC for the lulz.

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The chiming of bells rang through the halls; not resounding, but distant, as if on a breath of wind in the carved tunnels of Andante. Despite the deep and heavy slumber he'd been in previously, the soldier woke to the gentle sound, gazing out at the glowing crystals beyond his window as if he'd been doing so all night. The figure beside him had recently rolled away, leaving a ghost of warmth on the sheets as their bare back faced him. A soft smile, grateful and loving, crossed the other's face, and he slid out from under the covers with the grace of one used to hiding in shadows. Taking care that his weight upon the thick stone would not wake his companion, he gathered his clothing and opened the door to the adjacent room, shutting the door behind him with equal care.

After assuring himself that the figure behind the door was still asleep, he sighed, placing his bundle on a nearby surface with a soft _fhwump_ and a metallic jingle. In quick strides, he made it across the room to an oil lamp, lighting it with the flint and steel that he always kept nearby. A quiet _snickt_, then a soft flame that grew brighter by the moment until it reached its pinnacle.

In its warm light, the man before was no longer a small boy, freckles non-existent and hair longer, shaggier. He'd grown tall –even taller than his mother had predicted that score and five years prior—and his build was both broad and lean, with muscles hardened by years of physical labor and battle. His tanned skin was marred by a myriad of scars, ranging from minor nicks and bullet wounds to thick gashes and an obvious burn or two. Though nude, he seemed not bothered by the idea, as if used to being such for much of his life. For a moment, he stared at the flame, a soft smile of recollection on his masculine features. Then, he turned away, retrieving the soft underclothing he'd brought out and slipping it on with practiced motions. Then came the chainmail armor, and soon the rest of his unique uniform fell into place. In moments, the light showed what the world had seen for the past twelve years—a soldier, willing and ready to fight against his country while fighting for it. Now fully dressed, he proceeded to light the rest of the lamps in the room, until it held a steady glow that reached every corner.

The room itself was fairly simple and much like the rest of the underground town it was part of—hewn of stone yet cozy, with wooden doors separating the main room from the side bedroom, and the whole quarters from the halls outside. Inside, the room had a few intricate rugs laid out in the manner of the town; one on the floor, a second hung in the doorway, and another draping across the wall. A small couch, low table, cabinet, and desk occupied the majority of the small room, with a couple wooden chairs here and there. Each piece was made of wood, though their types were as eclectic as their owner and his band of merry soldiers. Some were dark, others ashen—even the designs were different, as if he simply saw a piece and took it for its usefulness rather than artistic compatibility. It suited him, and he felt more comfortable in this room than any other.

Especially since…

A knocking came at the door, snapping the soldier from his near-fantasy. Shaking his head, he called out to the source of the noise. "Come in." The door opened, and a young woman walked in. She was tiny in all aspects; short, thin, and built like a dancer rather than a fighter. Her platinum blonde hair was cropped short away from her fae-like features, and her green eyes glinted with a sharp light. Dressed all in tight-fitting blue, she hardly looked like a soldier, save for the lithe grace she prowled into the small room with. Behind her, a young man entered as well, his face flush with youth and exuberance.

"Jazz." The young woman drew his attention from the boy, and he smiled at his second-in-command. "This is Rhyme."

"Yes, I remember him," the soldier stated, his voice low and laughing. "If my memory serves, you came here almost a year ago, didn't you?" The boy nodded, agreeing ecstatically with his superior. "So, you've about completed your training, then?"

Before the other could answer, the blonde cut him off. "Sir, he wishes to join the troops heading undercover in Piccolo City." She gave him a piercing look with her cattish eyes and the soldier nodded, proud and shy at the same time. The dark-haired man gave a sigh, then nodded to his second.

"All right, Falsetto. I'll talk with him. But, _privately_, please." Despite the pleasantness in his voice, his order was firm and clear. The young lady turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her with a dull _thud_. A moment passed, then Jazz's smile turned to his young soldier. "Have a seat, Rhyme, and I'll debrief you on Piccolo City."

Excitedly, the younger sat in one of the wooden chair, eagerly awaiting his orders and mission. Steadily and without haste, the taller man moved to the couch and sat, pondering the soldier with a curious gaze. The young man had grown since he'd first seen him, becoming taller and broader with the year of training they'd put him through. His short brown hair had also grown, tied back away from his face in a high ponytail with the bangs slicked back away from the angled features. His pale gray eyes were alight with excitement and determination, though the way he sat was concealing his anticipation by holding proper posture.

After his assessment of the boy, the older soldier sighed and shook his head, regretting that he'd told others about the undercover mission so soon. However, he needed to be told what he was getting into, should he decide to go.

"Rhyme, I'm… I'm proud of you for completing your training so soon…" Saints, where were the words he needed? "However, I don't think you're ready for a mission like this. Going into Piccolo City is nothing like being in Forte, and you weren't there for the worst of that." The boy opened his mouth to object, but Jazz held up a hand, silencing him. "But, I'll go ahead and tell you about the city anyway, and you can decide whether or not you're ready. Just remember; people learn information and good judgment from experience… and experience comes from bad judgment."

Taking a deep breath, the soldier let his mind wander back into those old days, mere weeks after his mother and brother's deaths. "Back when I was a young boy, my brother and I travelled to Piccolo City," he explained calmly, thoughts drifting along the musty sea of his memories. "We had nowhere to go; no family left, no home to go back to, and no skills with which to sell ourselves, for we were much too young. But, my brother had heard that Piccolo City was a place where people could buy and sell anything… where everything had a price…"

---

"Remember Jazz, stay close to me or you'll be snatched up and sold off to some slaver, you hear?" The boy nodded, his face dirtied and frightened. The air was hot and dry, and sand got into everything. They had already sold everything they brought with them in order to acquire the small, cloistered living space they occupied on the first day they arrived. A week had passed, and Jazz only barely remembered that his birthday had been yesterday, making him six years old. His brother had brought him out into the market, the eleven-year-old making his way through like a seasoned trader. He told him that they were going to the market again, but this time they didn't bring anything with them.

Being so young, the child asked no questions of his older sibling, simply followed him as ordered. He clutched the older boy's cloak and kept pace, keeping his eyes out for the slavers his elder spoke of.

They arrived soon at a place he'd never seen before; it was a large building, made of an orange-yellow stone like much of the city, and draped with cloth in a mysterious and inviting manner. A heady, thick scent of incense and musk emanated from the building's windows and door, standing in front of which was a woman hardly older than five and twenty. She glanced at them with a tilted eyebrow, her features smooth and fine, touched lightly with blue kohl and bronze blush. Her burgundy lips smiled when she saw the elder and nodded, opening the layers of cloth that barred their path. He nodded back and walked inside, leaving the younger to hastily follow after.

Inside the room, the musk was thicker, mixed with the scent of flowers, incense, and cool water. Beautiful men and women walked about freely; some held on to the arms of others older than they, some sat and laughed languidly in dulcet tones with each other, and a few watched the two boys, predatory smiles on their charming features. Ignoring all of them, the older boy walked straight up to an elder woman sitting in a chair and playing a game with a small child. He cleared his throat and tilted his chin up proudly.

"Madam Clarinet?" The woman turned her gaze from the board, and Jazz could see her fully for the first time. In her prime, she must have been exceptionally beautiful, though age made her look simply regal and powerful. Her black hair was sprinkled with silver and pulled back in an intricate bun, her tanned skin showing faint lines of laughter and smiles, and her deep forest-like eyes shimmered with interest. She wore fine cloth of deep greens and blues, accented with gold thread, and her hands and neck were decorated with fine jewels set in precious metal. She lifted one carefully sculpted eyebrow at the young lads and smiled, amused.

"Indeed I am, boy," she stated, her voice laden heavily in the area's accent. "You must be the one my ladies told me about the other night. 'Tis quite an interesting prospect you bring to me today." Her dark eyes settled on Jazz, gazing deeply into his own shadowy depths as if she were peering at his very soul. Then, the moment vanished as she looked back to his brother, her smile deepening as she stood. "Please, come with me into my office. I'm sure one of my girls can watch over him while we speak." Nodding to a young woman across the room, the matron stood and bowed to him.

"Right this way, Master Meter." Then, they were gone, and a young woman with hair like a black waterfall and eyes filled with violet lightning came up to him, occupying the lad until his brother returned almost an hour later.

When he came out, Jazz looked up at him, but Meter refused to meet his gaze. He ran up, clutching at his brother's cloak with a hopeful smile, but still their eyes did not meet. He looked to the older woman, confused, but she smiled and bent down to ruffle his hair. "Don't worry, little one," she purred. "You're going to stay here for a little while. I'm going to make you into quite the exquisite little Nightling."

Confused, the boy looked back to his brother, but still the icy blue orbs diverted away. "You'll stay here until I come for you, Jazz," he said sternly. "Madam Clarinet is your keeper now, and you have to do what she says until I come get you. Promise?"

"Y-yes, Meter."

"Good then. I'll set up his room right away." The woman pulled his shoulder, gently but firmly away. "Come now, Jazz; I have a few nice young men who would love to see you tonight, so we better get you all cleaned up. I will not have dirty little boys in my house, you hear?" As she led him upstairs, Jazz glanced back to see his brother stride out the door, and didn't see him again for over two months.

After that… the nights only became longer.

---

"…Sir?" The soldier looked up, his dark eyes locking with the pale gray orbs of the young fighter. His skin had gone pale, and he was trembling slightly, as if what he'd been told frightened him. _Good, he __**should**__ be scared of going to that place._

"Yes, Rhyme?" He knew his eyes were hard, haunted even at that moment, but he didn't care; it would provide further impact to his story. Already he could see that the young man was shaken, and he hoped it would be enough.

"I… I had no idea, sir…"

With a soft chuckle, he let his expression shift into a smile, though one that guarded many other secrets and still held pain. He was pretty good at being able to tell what his expressions were after so many years of being forced to hide them. "I don't really tell people that story," he answered, a light yet forced laugh in his tone. "I find it doesn't really help morale any, so I usually keep it to myself."

"How… how _long_, sir?"

"Oh, 'bout ten or so years. But, that's a different story." Locking eyes with him, his smile dropped. "So, Rhyme. Do you think you're ready to go? Are you _sure_ that you want to walk into that Hell, _knowing_ you'll never come out the same? Knowing that…" He glanced down at his hands, a hidden anguish present on his features and in his voice. "…That _I_ was corrupted by that place? That I can never go back there, even in the name of my country?"

Looking back up, the rebel leader mentally kicked himself for the look of absolute agony on the younger's face. He meant to guilt-trip him, not to make him hurt. Sighing, he stood up and smiled, helping the lad to his feet. "Tell you what," he stated, his smiling growing warm and gentle. "How about you think about it, sleep on it, and tell me when you're ready? I won't blame you if you do or don't—it's your choice. Whether or not it's a wise one is up to you and how well I've trained you."

After leading the boy to the door and letting him out, Jazz closed the door, leaning against its solid wood face. He didn't mean to make him so upset; he just didn't want someone who wasn't ready to see that kind of horror exposed to it with his order.

"…You didn't tell him everything, did you?"

He wasn't surprised to hear that voice. He actually expected an interruption of some sort; instead, they had stood quietly, listening.

"No, no I didn't." Smiling over his shoulder, he gave a shrug, as if everything he'd said didn't reopen old wounds in his soul. "But, then again, I don't tell people a lot of things."

A snort of discontent, as well as a slightly imperious frown. "I don't suppose I count as one of the few yet, do I?" It was all Jazz could do not to laugh aloud, but he shook his head.

"You're getting there, trust me. So far, only Falsetto knows what you do, I think." A chime rang out through the air, and the soldier sighed, shaking his head. "There's the bell. I need to go off and start my duties for the day." A mischievous grin settled on his face, making his age drop from early thirties to mid-twenties in a flash. "Can I expect you back here tonight?"

The other appeared slightly flustered. "Jazz! I _do_ have other things to attend to as well!" Shrugging, the soldier opened the door again, still grinning.

"Then, I hope I see you around. There are a lot of things I need to do today. I'm kind of the leader of this band of misfits." Without another look back, he headed out into the halls, ready to take on the morning inside the bustling military city.

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Okay, so, that's everything so far. More will be updated sometime this week, so forgive me if it's a little late in coming. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Senyaichiya

Well, it's about six am, and life is very cruel, considering that I only slept about three hours already. Oh well, it means I can use National Novel Writing Month to its fullest extent! Whoooo! Anyway, as I promised, here's chapter four of _Sleepless Nights_. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own the cast of _Eternal Sonata/Trusty Bell: Chopin's Dream_.

WARNING! This chapter may contain graphic content of pedophilia, rape, child abuse, human trafficking, and child prostitution. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

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The day went by a lot faster than expected. With all the tasks that needed to be finished before he was spirited away again, Jazz had his hands full. Most if it was things only he and Falsetto could do –ordering supplies, approving tradesmen and travelers, reading mission reports from their men and women in the field—but he'd figured the young lady had had just about enough of dealing with things he'd put off while gathering intel and fighting alongside their most recent comrades. So, he'd done what was necessary; check the inventory of stockpiled food and weapons, issue an order to replace and replenish what they needed, check the infirmary for their medicinal items, cheer up the current patients (nothing too serious this time, thank Saints), then head back to his quarters and read through the documents that had mysteriously apparrated onto his desk in his absence.

Though slow-going due to his substantial lack of training in the area, reading the reports and requests of his men cheered him a little. Three years ago, they were almost all fighting out in the front lines; now, only a select few were undercover, and some were training in the field, but other than that his soldiers were all at home, raising their families and living their lives in a better country than they'd been born into. Rather than looking for weapons, rations, and extra support on the Fortean front, they were making requests for music from the city's own composer and marriage licenses and a few extra food supplies for the upcoming Midsummer festival. The reports were everything he expected; just enough information to keep them guessing, but not enough to take action. (This relieved him, as he really hoped not to get into another major battle so soon.) Still, despite the mediocrity of the task, it was well into the late afternoon before he looked up from his work, and his stomach was complaining heavily over the lack of attention it had been given.

Getting to the mess hall had been slightly more trouble than usual, however; more people at home meant more mouths to feed at one time than they were used to. It also meant more people in the moderate antechamber than was suggested; meaning lines, arguments, and a great deal of noise were present during all meals. He enjoyed it, though; these sights and sounds were a novelty during the rebellion. Now, he could hear them everyday and never tire of it.

As he entered the room, his dark eyes scanned over the crowd, looking for the one who had overheard this morning. However, the individual was not in the room; either they had already eaten or had not yet arrived. In either case, he did instead spot another familiar face and smiled, weaving his way towards them in hopes of good conversation.

"Well, you look as dower as ever," he laughed, leaning over the table at the surprised face before him. "Is something bothering you, Allegretto?"

The lad was almost in his twenties now, though his hair was the grayish-silver of men three times his age. Deep blue eyes stared in shock and awe of the soldier leaning on the table, his young face a mask of pure astonishment and his posture that of a man startled. Obviously, he had not expected Jazz's particular company, and that made it all the better when he composed himself and shook off the stunned look.

"Um… well, not really…" The boy shifted nervously in his seat, glancing about the room in discomfort, as if looking for someone. "I was… well, I guess…" A faint red glow tinged the boy's cheek, and Jazz decided to sit for this explanation, whipping a chair around backwards to rest his chin and arms on the back of it. The boy fidgeted under the calm, waiting gaze until he finally mumbled something that was lost in the din of the hall.

With a chuckle, Jazz shook his head. "I can't hear you if you don't speak up," he stated, the smile on his face playful and inviting. "Come on; what's got you so down?"

The cobalt eyes glance up to him again, then dropped to his plate, the crimson stain spreading further down his face and under his collar. "Well… I just… I haven't seen her in a while, and… I've been worried about her…" By the way he started and stopped, as well as the way he thumbed the woven bracelet on his wrist, Jazz knew exactly who the young man was talking about.

"You mean Polka, don't you?" The stiff nod (accompanied by a very intense stare at his empty plate) confirmed the soldier's statement. Sighing, Jazz leaned back, thinking on what he had heard over the past few days. "From what Falsetto reported on her last time out there, it seems she has everything under control. Her shop's still busy, and she and her mother are doing quite well. I think the summer weather is doing the Polka some real good."

He neglected to mention the letter he'd received the night before from Solfege, about how her daughter had taken ill again a few days prior. She had asked him to pass the message along to another (which he had), hoping he could heal the girl's spirits as well as her body, though her sudden decline in heath was nothing serious. However, Allegretto was not that person, and he doubted that the boy would be able to keep his anxiety from boiling over into spats of ill-placed arguments. Considering that the specified party would not be leaving until early tomorrow, he decided against telling Allegretto when the requested man was departing.

The information he'd given seemed to satiate the silver-haired street fighter, however his look was more downcast than before. With a hefty sigh, Jazz placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled kindly when their gazes met. "I'm sure she misses you, Allegretto," he assured him gently. "After all, you got a letter two days ago, didn't you? You can't expect couriers to be running at all hours everyday." The nod he received was solemn, but the boy did not disagree. "Well, there you are, then! I'm sure you'll get a response in another day or two. Have faith in her." A light shown in the boy's eye and he nodded again, sitting straight up as an incentive filled him once more.

"Thanks Jazz."

"Anytime. Come to me if you need anything, okay?"

"Yeah, I will." Standing, the lad made his way out of the emptying mess hall, leaving the soldier alone at the table. Others waved at him as they left, and he returned the gesture, renewed by the knowledge that his teen love was thinking of him still. Jazz could only smile as he watched the boy go, then stood to deal with another issue at hand—he'd been distracted from his initial task of actually _eating_. However, when he arrived at the kitchens, it seemed that most of the meal had already been eaten, leaving something akin to the barest of scraps. This didn't bother him, though; instead, he chuckled and took what he could, deciding not to bother the kitchen staff as they themselves were in the midst of dining. Then, he left back to his own quarters, munching unceremoniously on a roll as he walked.

Where others would have been a kind sort of company, he met few on his way back, and none could do more than spare him a smile or wave as he traversed the stone passageways. Ever still, he lost himself in thought, taking roost in a small alcove behind one of the many free-flowing waterfalls of the secluded town. From here, he could gaze over much of the subterranean city, watching his soldiers and their families go about their daily business as he ate the remainders of his meal. However, he couldn't help thinking back on his talk with Rhyme, which (rather inevitably) led him back to that day, the day his brother sold him for livelihood. The day, perhaps, he lost most of his innocence as a child, one portion that would never be regained.

Without even realizing it, his gaze grew as pained and solemn as it did distant, and he whispered to himself the words he remembered so clearly. "Come now, gentlemen. I assure our wares are only the finest. In fact, we just got something new in this morning, if you'd like to see…"

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"…though, I must admit, he's quite fresh. Not trained yet, but I know that such men as yourselves prefer a more innocent touch." The middle-aged woman smiled brightly, the expression making her lined face as beautiful as it must have been years ago. She stood before the open door in a wrap of deep twilight silk, the firelight casting shadows of dusk and nightfall across her slender frame. She gestured inwards to the room, the jewels on her fingers sparkling in the soft light. A few voices chuckled from behind the jam, and the boy inside squirmed nervously, careful not to let the cloth about his lean frame pool onto the pillows beside him. Madam Clarinet had ordered him to stay still after some of the young women had bathed and clothed him, using a musky oil of some sort to soften his lightly bronzed skin under the bone white silk of his less-than-covering robe. His black hair had been combed and cut into a feathery yet silky wave, and his dark eyes lined with gold to bring out their luster. Still, he shook, and only by will did he not cry. He had been told that he was a prize indeed; that young lords would love to keep his company for a night. He didn't know what she had meant, but it filled him with worry bordering on fear.

"So, my lords, who would like to teach this young lad our ways tonight, hm?" Her smile hid some form of mischief he couldn't place, and he held his breath to hear the responses from the hallway.

"Unfortunately, Madam, my tastes lie in those slightly older," one voice answered. It was low and gruff, haughty in its nobility. "From what I hear, this new boy you have is no more than a child. Why, it'd be quite ludicrous to have a boy so young." A sigh of relief escaped his lips, and Jazz relaxed, relieved that he had not been chosen for whatever must be giving him this tight feeling of fear in his chest.

"'Ludicrous', you say?" A younger voice spoke this time, equally as imperious and definitively more spoiled. "Well, pardon my insanity, my lord, but I prefer to have someone who fits snugly." This produced a round of low chortles that made the boy shift slightly in humility. "Besides, the younger they are, the more trustworthy their voices are." The voices outside the door carried on like this for a bit, and each of their insinuations grew more and more blatant, until finally one spoke up.

"Do we actually get to _see_ this new boy you have, Madam? Or are we to remain out here in the dark until your precious new flower blooms?"

"No, not at all, my lords," the dark lady answered, a light laugh in her voice that belied the contrite respect on her face. "Come in, and you shall see for yourselves what a true gem we have discovered."

One by one, men entered the candlelit chamber after Clarinet's gesture inwards. He could count six in all, each but one as dark-skinned and regal as the woman who kept him here. Some were large, others were small, but they all held that glimmer of curiosity and want in their dark, gem-like eyes. The last one was fair-skinned, and he seemed more interested in what his cohorts wanted than the boy, though his deep blue eyes strayed to the child more than once with a malevolent gleam.

The youngest spoke, his the voice that had been heard second in the hall. "My, my, you were _not_ joking, Madam Clarinet." His voice dripped with selfishness and laughter, and he smiled at the boy as an unmarried soldier would a buxom tavern wench. "He certainly _is_ young, and quite the lovely peach. Though, I must ask; where did you find him? He doesn't look like one of your lady's brats."

"He came to us from the south, actually," she answered modestly, giving the lad a reassuring smile that didn't make his nervousness any better. "An orphan, from what I hear, with a mother of Gospel blood. Do not worry, gentlemen; I have already taken the necessary precautions. He's as pure as Baroquen snow." A few murmurs spoke up, and the men talked amongst themselves for a bit. However, the boy's gaze was trained on the only man looking at him; the pale one, who had such a cold and cruel gaze he could not look away from. Eyes of dark aquamarine bored into his soul behind silver hair and a single lens of glass, and it was this gaze of utter malice that made the boy want to crawl away and hide more than anything.

"My dear Madam, I would like the boy." The child shifted his attention immediately to the man who had spoken—a new voice that sounded softer than the others, yet held a firmness that could not be denied. The declaration had come from a young man, likely into his early twenties, and very noble. His features were smooth and coppery, with deep gold eyes and fluffy tawny hair reminiscent of a lion's mane. He was certainly gentle, but held a build of a man who knew how to end a life with ease. He smiled as Jazz's hopeful eyes fell upon him, then nodded. "Indeed, I have decided. How much for his innocent company?"

"Ah, my Lord, the bartering begins at two thousand," the matron answered coyly. "This is, after all, the only youngling we've had in almost ten years."

"The only youngling _worthy_ in ten years, you mean," a man scoffed, his hawkish features set in a haughty sneer. "I admit that the boy is beautiful, Madam, but an untrained, albeit untouched, specimen is worth nowhere _near_ two thousand gold."

"I quite disagree. As a matter of fact, I think my own lord might find it a mere _trifle_ to obtain such a creature." The pale man had been the one to speak, and had done so with the calm, confident nature of a man knowing that he will _always_ get what he want. The boy had to force himself not to tremble as those chilly eyes met his again, the firelight flickering across the single glass lens upon his young face. "To find such a mix is a rarity in our world, and one well worth the cost."

"Indeed," the lion-esque man conceded. He turned to the matron with a smile. "I will pay _five_ thousand for the boy tonight, and five hundred for every night I may keep him." Madam Clarinet raised one delicate eyebrow in amusement, but was cut off before her lips could space more than a hair's breadth.

"And my lord, Madam, will pay ten thousand tonight if we may take the boy when we leave tomorrow." The pale man was smirking now, the expression charismatic and horrible all at once, and his eyes glimmered with a hunger the boy did not recognize… yet.

"Such offers, gentlemen," the Madam chuckled, hiding her smile behind one carefully decorated hand coyly. "Do any others make offers on the child?"

"I believe I will up my offerings, my dear lady," the tawny-haired man stated firmly. "Eight thousand tonight, and the price of your highest lady each night I take this boy."

Silence greeted this statement, then the man with silver hair chuckled. "Ah, I must concede, Madam Clarinet," he murmured. "How can I compete with such devoted customers?" He nodded to the royal-looking man, giving a slight bow with a smile that was all but contrite. He seemed, more than anything, simply amused…

"Then, it is decided." Clarinet clapped her hand, smiling brilliantly in the low firelight. She snapped her fingers and a teenage girl came to her immediately, bearing a parchment and feathered quill. "Eight thousand gold tonight, and nine hundred for each night thereafter in the name of Prince Piccolo the Twelfth for as long as he may visit my humble brothel. I take it you wish the boy to be exclusive until you terminate your contract?"

"Of course."

"Then sign here my Lord, and our contract will be complete." He signed the paper, and the group moved out of the room, leaving the Prince in the room alone with the child. The matron smiled at the both of them as she pulled on a rope, speaking only once before the cloth dropped completely.

"Enjoy your prize, my Prince; I assure you, he is quite the catch."

After the sheets of fabric covered the door entirely, the two simply stared at each other, the fire making the only sound in the now frightfully hot room. The musk that permeated the very air grew thicker, making the room seem hazy, and he felt his skin begin to glimmer with sweat. Still, he could not take his eyes from the man, Piccolo, desperately trying to keep from shaking under the white silk. The man glanced over his prize with warmth and comfort before walking forward…

…and sitting gently on the pillows next to him.

"What is your name, dear child?" He was earnest, honest and kind, simply wishing to speak, and so the boy did gladly.

"Jazz, my lord." The words were dry on his tongue, as if they didn't belong there in the first place, but he tried anyway. "It's Jazz."

"Jazz, hm?" The name came out as a purr in his throat, not unlike a great cat's growl. "That's quite the name. I'm sure you shall live up to it one day, should you receive the chance."

The boy stared at him, some of his anxiety lost in his confusion and interest. "What do you mean? Is my name special?"

"Oh, very. After all, I'm sure you will be quite well-known someday." The kind glint in the man's golden eyes changed rapidly to a deep ember of hunger. Before the boy knew it, his hand was stroking his hair, brushing it out of the way as strong fingers played over his delicate scalp. Eyes closing, he wondered if Madam Clarinet had meant only that; that he should be the man's company tonight and nothing more.

"You are such a beautiful child, Jazz," the deep voice crooned, the hand moving lightly from his scalp to his neck. Instinctively, he tilted his head away from the touch, allowing the fingers to brush his neck and send shivers down his spine. It was a comfortable feeling, and all his fear was gone. This man was kind; all he wanted was someone to talk to.

"Thank you, Mister Piccolo."

"You are quite welcome, Jazz." He heard the shifting of his companion on the pillows and turned his head towards it, opening his eyes slightly. The smile the older gave was dazzling. "It is nothing, dear boy; I am only shifting. Though, would you mind sitting closer? You look tired, and I wish nothing more than for you to be comfortable." He patted his lap, and Jazz climbed into it without concern, resting his head back against the sculpted chest. Those strong hands stroked his arms and neck, relaxing him until he swore he could almost fall asleep in the comforting embrace. Then the hands traveled lower; across his chest, his stomach, his hips. Gently, they parted the fabric from the flesh, and chiseled lips pressed against his shoulder and neck.

Before he could understand what was happening, the hand dipped lower, brushing a spot that made the boy gasp and stare at the ceiling in shock. It was a new feeling; something different and something… something wrong.

"M-mister-"

"Hush Jazz, be calm."

"B-but…" The boy tried to squirm away, but the strong hands and arms pulled him back into the man's lap. Jazz shifted uncomfortably; he didn't know why, but it felt as if he was sitting on a metal rod that had not been there before. "I… I don't feel right…"

The prince chuckled, the sound resonating deeply in his chest as his hands began to flutter once more; one across the buds on his thin chest in soft circles, the other between his legs with firm touches that made the child ever more feverish. His tongue, moist and warm, slid over the sweaty, oiled skin, making Jazz openly shudder even as he panted for air already. This reaction made the man growl deeply, and his hands moved faster –_harder_—and his lips and tongue swirled over virgin skin in molten circles. The younger cried out, though in what he didn't know, and the hands seized him tightly.

"Oh, my dear Jazz, I simply _must_ have you now."

"W-what?"

In an instant, the child was thrown to the floor, landing sharply on his belatedly splayed hands. He could feel the throbbing between his legs, and his body shook as he tried to focus on the man now above him. A moment of feral heat passed over them both, and then the man was stripped, his member a firm, needy rod before him. Without warning, he pushed the child's face into the floor, his other hand gripping the slender hips and propping them upward.

He couldn't stop crying now. Something was wrong; what happened? What was _going_ to happen? Before he could ponder much further, he felt Piccolo's thigh slide between his own, giving him something to rest against as the hand slid away to massage the soft rump. The massage slowly shifted to a more sensitive place, and soon Jazz could feel one of his fingers slide _in_. Desperately, he squirmed, trying to get away, but the intruding appendage was simply joined by another with a sharp, aching pain, and he could only pant against the floor, tears falling because of his pain and confusion. He whimpered as the digits flexed and parted within him, then cried out when a third joined them with a tearing pain. It hurt so much, and he didn't know why it was _him_.

Then, the fingers were gone, and his legs were forced apart, straddling the wider legs. He pushed himself onto his hands, wondering what was going to happen next, when another pressure was placed against the sore, wet spot. Jazz stiffened, fear grasping him, and he screamed as the man behind him thrust deeply into his inexperienced body. It burned and chilled, ached and tore with every thrust as the man pounded time after time into his tiny form, and his cries and tears went unnoticed; save, perhaps, to increase the frequency and force of the motions. He tried to crawl away, but he was forced back by strong, lustful hands, pulling him into Piccolo's lap. The Easterner forced him to sit upright as he bounced the boy harshly, breathing heavily in the boy's ear and he nibbled and licked the child's neck. The ministrations of the man created conflicting feelings; the thrusting hurt more than any pain he'd felt before, but the touches and tastes and bites made his body heat and harden with just as much ferocity.

Then, suddenly, he felt a blinding shock of incomprehensible pleasure. He cried out and the spot was hit again, sending stars across his vision and forcing another wanton utterance from his young throat. This cycle continued, each more forceful than the other until finally his body simply couldn't take it anymore and he arched, the pleasure and pain overwhelming his body to the point of release. He felt the stillness as the man behind him stopped his movement and felt up and down the now slick prepubescent shaft between his thighs. Whimpers and mewls of pain emitted from the child, and the heavy breathing slowed for a moment.

"I am so sorry, Jazz. Would you like me to make it up to you?"

He wasn't sure, but it was clear that the man was not giving him much of a choice. Slowly, he felt the iron rod of the man's penis slide from his body, and he was lifted into the air to be placed rather unceremoniously on the pile of pillows. He moved away, and the boy slipped off the silky pillows without realizing it until his damaged buttocks hit the floor with a thud and he whimpered once more. Nothing had hurt like this, and now he hurt even more. He glanced over to the prince, who was rubbing the swollen member gently as it shone in the firelight. After a moment, he moved back to the pillows and sat, the offending organ still protruding as he smelled ever more strongly of musk and oil. The child sighed and curled up slightly, wishing this to be the end. However, it seemed as if the _sheik_ was merely resting for a moment. In mere seconds, the man was upright, and he pulled the boy to his knees before him.

"Taste it, dear child," he purred, holding the hardened shaft of his member towards the younger as he brought the boy's head closer to him. "I promise, it will be unlike anything you have _ever_ tasted before." Hesitating, the child tentatively leaned forward and touched his tongue to the tip of the shaft. It tasted of skin and the oils the women had rubbed into his skin; sweet and spicy. A soft groan made him look up, and the man's nod and iron-clad grip forced his continuance. He licked over the tip, unsure of whether this was right or not, then placed his lips over the hardened organ to suck on the sensitive bud. The groan immediately became more needy, and both hands gripped the child, pulling him closer and forcing the member further into his mouth.

"Suck on it hard, Jazz," he growled, tangling the boy's pitch locks between his fingers as he pulled him ever closer. "I want those licks and kisses all over it."

He was afraid, but he did as he was told. He licked every spot he could find, kissed the throbbing piece gently, and moved back to the tip (because it made Piccolo happiest, he thought), taking as much of the organ into his mouth as he could and sucking hard. The man moaned deeply and forced his head into a rhythmic bob, forcing the boy down as much as he was able without gagging. He wasn't sure why this was important, but it didn't hurt like before…

…until everything came in more force. He his head was pulled even harder, so much that he did gag slightly. He released his lips and pulled away, but the tawny-haired man simply pulled him up into his lap again, this time facing him. There was no prelude this time; he was simply shifted and penetrated, eliciting another scream of agony as the man pounded him relentlessly. Somehow, the child was shifted into the pillows, the man resting the boy's legs against his chest as he thrust harder and deeper into him before. Jazz screamed, crying with each thrust of how it hurt, but that only excited the man more. Harder, faster, deeper… it went on for what seemed like forever until the man finally jolted and drew the child over him completely with a roar that may simply have been the child's own screams. Twice. Thrice. Then a shudder and a chilly, liquid sensation in his belly before the man ceased moving. The child's whimpering sobs were mixed with the deep breathing of the spent man. The pain throbbed within and without, and he could feel liquid dripping down his back and into the pillows.

Finally, after an age, the man pulled out, dropping the child harshly into the pillows again with an exhausted whimper. He blinked, trying to focus on the man, but a warm hand brushed over his brow.

"Rest, little one. I will have more to teach you when you wake."

Then, thankfully, darkness overtook him and the pain was left behind… until next he woke.

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Jazz didn't realize how much time had passed until the bells chimed, snapping him out of his state. Sundown. He straightened up, shaking his head as he forced himself to block out the memory for now. So focused was he that he didn't see the man standing behind him until he nearly crashed into him. A figure clad in navy and white staggered and nearly crumpled to the floor, but the commander was fast enough to catch and steady the thin man.

"Frederic! I'm so sorry; I didn't see you there!"

The man chuckled quietly, regaining his balance and waiving off a hand as he picked up his fallen hat. "It's quite all right, Jazz," he answered crisply, his smile genuine (and yet masking) as he put on his hat, once again completing his ensemble. "I was actually just looking for you." Instantly, his expression became one of worry, showing the paternal nature the composer desperately tried to argue he did not have. "Have you been feeling all right? Everyone I've spoken to said you seemed a little… odd, today."

Shaking his head, Jazz recalled again the memories that crept upon him before, but shoved them back into the far recesses of his mind once more. "It's nothing, really," he laughed, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "I've just been distracted a lot recently."

"As I've noticed," the elder man stated dryly, piercing him with a flat stare. "You seemed to be lost in your thoughts quite often as of late."

"Just being reminded of times past!" The statement was said as a joke, and the smile he gave only reinforced its intent. The navy-haired man arched an eyebrow over his sapphire-blue eyes (which clearly showed he didn't believe an ounce of the "intent"), but sighed and shook his head.

"All right. But talk to someone if you're bothered by something, all right? Falsetto knows you best, but I'm here to help if you need it."

"On my honor." Holding up his right hand, Jazz grinned at the musician as he rolled his eyes and strode away in a regal huff. At the end of the hall, Frederic turned back to give the military man a hard stare, then imperiously faced the other direction and turned a corner. The rebel chuckled and rubbed his head, amused by how irritated the composer seemed before heading off to find out what else needed to be done before the day was out.

Not to mention getting dinner. Apparently, revisiting old memories makes a man hungrier than Hell.

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Well, finally done. I can already see people wanting to destroy me for doing this to Jazz, but hey—I figured he needed a sufficiently terrible past to overcome. There's more where that came from, kiddies, so either deal with it or stop reading. It's only going to get more gruesome, I guarantee it. For now, reviews are quite welcome.


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